


An Eye for An Eye

by wechoosewhatwearesammy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Reunions, The Final Problem
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-10
Updated: 2012-12-10
Packaged: 2017-11-20 19:49:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 6,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/589027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wechoosewhatwearesammy/pseuds/wechoosewhatwearesammy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens when Sherlock comes back, post Reichenbach, but John (and his other friends) are still in danger? Can Sherlock outmaneuver Moriarty before he loses someone? Or is it Moriarty at all?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John sat in his chair, balancing a mug of tea on his left knee. He sighed quietly, and raked a hand through his shaggy hair. He watched as the big toe on his right foot, scratched his left one. Brows furrowing slightly, his eyes shifted to the window, the curtain flapping in the light breeze, before his eyes rested on their usual spot: Sherlock's chair. Sherlock's empty chair.  
Footsteps on the stairs, he turned his head, already knowing it was Mrs. Hudson.  
“John, dear......How are you feeling?” Mrs. Hudson says quietly.  
He can find no words that can capture just what he feels, that she, or anyone else would understand. He makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a cry. Mrs. Hudson coos comfortingly, and comes around to put an arm around his shoulder.  
“Don't!” he shouts “Don't...don't touch me, please.” He sounds like a complete nutter even to his own ears, but it just explodes from him sometimes.  
“Alright, dear, it's fine, I understand” Mrs. Hudson smiles weakly, and John can see that she does. “You really should get out.....Mycroft says he arranged for you to see your therapist again. I know it's hard dear, I do, but you need to talk to someone, anyone.”  
John had to look away then, and he nodded sharply, acknowledging that she was right. Of course she was. He pulled himself to standing, sitting the tea on the desk, and went to the window. Nudging aside the curtain, he saw that there was a cab waiting at the curb out front.  
“Mycroft was pretty sure I would go, hmm?” He gave a mirthless half grin.  
“You know Mycroft...”Mrs. Hudson said, spreading her hands out in front of her as if showing how frustrating he could be.  
“Pffftt....” John let out a annoyed breath. “Fine”. He walked over to the couch, and started to slip on his shoes.  
“Aren't you going to get dressed, dear?”  
John looked down at his plain, white tee shirt, and striped pajama bottoms. He shrugged, what was the point? Shoes finally on, he stood up, and followed Mrs. Hudson from the flat, locking the door behind him. He waited until Mrs. Hudson was safely inside her own flat, before he ventured outside.  
“Right then” He drew a deep breath, opening the door to the cab, and slid in.


	2. Chapter 2

Ella sat opposite him, taking notes, even though he wasn't saying anything. She paused in her writing to look up at him. Regarding him with a raised eyebrow, she tapped her pen on her paper.  
“It would be better if you talked about it.”  
“What do you want me to say?” John was propping his head up with one hand, looking bored.  
“Let's start with why you're here”  
“Mycroft sent for me”  
“The real reason, John” She said, with more emphasis.  
John leaned his head back, and sighed. Closing his eyes, he let himself think of Sherlock. He thought of that day. The day he jumped. His body splayed on the pavement. His battered and bloodied face. A familiar burning churned in his chest.  
“My friend...” He let out a shaky breath. “My best friend, Sherlock Holmes, is...dead” His voice hitched at the last word, and he looked away quickly. His left hand shook a bit as he wiped a rogue tear from his face.  
Ella watched him a moment, before adding “ How long have you had the tremor again, John?”  
“Hmm?”  
“Your left hand, the tremor has returned.”  
“Oh um.....Not sure, I noticed it a few days ago, I guess. The days all run together now.” He gave a halfhearted grin.  
“And how are you sleeping?”

John looked over her head and stared at the wall behind her as he remembered the events of last night.  
 _John had gone to bed at 11pm, as he always did. He tossed and turned for hours, not really resting. Finally he lay there, looking at the ceiling. He allowed himself to picture Sherlock's face. He suddenly felt a stab in his chest, and he was seized with wracking,debilitating sobbing. Oh, Sherlock. How could he leave him like this? How could he do such a thing? Selfish bastard! Selfish, selfish, stupid, bloody git. I hate you! He was punching the pillow, beating it senselessly. I want you to feel what I feel! You Bastard! God, oh...God, I miss you! And suddenly, there were hands in his hair, and he heard soothing noises in his ears, and he knew he must have gone over the edge. He'd gone stark raving mad. He refused to open his eyes, because he swore, he could've swore, he might've sworn, those were Sherlock's hands in his hair, Sherlock's words comforting him. He couldn't open his eyes and break his own fantasy. John had fallen into a fitful sleep at 4am._

“Ah.....I sleep...sometimes....”  
“I can give you something to help you sleep. It might make it easier to get through the day, if you had a proper night's rest”  
John let out a small laugh, that wasn't at all amused.  
“Something funny?”  
“Just.....you think.....everyone thinks they can do something, or give me something, or take me somewhere and I'll be all better. I'll suddenly forget that my best friend killed himself with no warning, and I'll be all better.”  
“It's not like that at all, John. But you're a doctor, and you know that people do get better from all kinds of hurting when they've rested'  
“I don't want to get better! Ok? I just...I don't want to forget, I don't want to stop seeing his face everywhere, I dont want to stop feeling like I've got a knife in my chest when I think of him, I dont want to stop hating him, and loving him, and thinking of him. I want to have him in the only way I can now. Can't you see that? Why can't you people just see that?! I just want this. It's all I have!” John screamed at her, then he collapsed with his head leaning back, shaking breaths ripping from him, tears threatening to fall, but he bit them back.  
“Ok, ok, John. I understand. You're grieving, that's normal. But someday, you will move on with your life. I'll prescribe something to help you with your depression and to help you sleep. I”d say for you to keep up with your blog, but that's probably too much to hope for, hmm?”  
John continued to stare at the ceiling, and said nothing.


	3. Chapter 3

The automatic doors of the store slid opened as John hobbled in, clutching his cane in his right hand. He walked over to the tea aisle, and stopped, staring at the extensive selection. His mind froze up. He'd been here dozens of times, maybe more. And he could not, for the life of him, remember what kind of tea Sherlock liked. No, this can't be right. Raspberry? Earl Grey? Black? What? Why couldn't he remember? A rage surged inside him to knock everything off the shelves, but somewhere in the back of his brain, a logical thought emerged: Don't be daft, people will talk. He was going crazy, hearing his thoughts in Sherlock's voice, and not remembering tea flavors he'd been buying for years. He hustled out of the store, and headed towards 221B.  
Unlocking the door, he immediately felt something was wrong. Sherlock would know instantly. John, however, looked around for over 5 minutes before he realized it. There was a warm cup of tea sitting next to Sherlock's chair. John picked up the cup and sniffed. Hmm, raspberry. “That's it!” He thought, “Raspberry is Sherlock's favorite. Then...... ?” He looked around. Everything else seemed to be all in order. He gave a short laugh. He was mad. Absolutely mad. For a moment there, he had thought that.....But no, there's no way. He laughed again, at the absurdity of the thought. He shook his head and took the cup to the sink.

 

John was laying in bed, staring at the ceiling. He swiped a hand over his mouth, fingers catching on long stubble. He closed his eyes, and scratched his head, his hair flopping as he did so. God, he needed a haircut. He sighed and turned on his side, facing the window, staring out at the full moon.  
 _“John, you really need to take better care of yourself” Sherlock's voice said from behind him._  
“What's the point? I don't have anyone, I don't go anywhere, what's the bloody point?” John said in resignation.  
 _“John, this is nonsense. Be logical. You need to move on with your life. It won't bring me back, to treat yourself with such disdain”_ John felt a warm touch on his shoulder.  
John stared at the moon for a long time, treasuring that touch, knowing he was imaging it, knowing he was crazy, and not caring one fig.  
“You're right, Sherlock. Of course, it won't bring you back. I'll do better” He said finally, as an idea occurred to him. His brows knitted in confusion as he felt the bed move as his imagining of Sherlock got up from the bed. No, it could be....could it? John's head snapped around, and was greeted with an empty room behind him. Of course.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: attempted suicide

John sighed heavily and looked up at his own reflection in the tombstone, so he wouldn't have to look at the name engraved there. He walked to stand beside it, and put one hand on it, gathering some strength from being near the resting place of his friend.

“This way, Sherlock...” His voice became ragged with sorrow. “This way, I can see you again. See? It's logical. I thought you'd like that. I hope you'll be waiting for me on the other side. ”  
He sat down heavily, with his back leaning on the tombstone. He looked down, as he fished out a prescription bottle out of his left coat pocket. Sleeping Pills. He turned them around in his hand for a bit, while looking out over the graveyard.  
He closed his eyes, and opened the bottle. He let all the pills slide into his mouth, and gulped them down. “Goodbye, friend” He mumbled, leaning his head back.

 _“John”_ A voice came to him from far away _“John!”_ He was being shaken. He tried to open his eyes, but his eyelids felt leaden. Peering through slits, he saw pale skin, and dark curls. “Sherlock!” he tried to say, but it came out “Shrrlk!”He started laughing, and it sounded drunken and much too deep. Sherlock grabbed him by the collar. _“......you take?”_ Sherlock shook him again, and John laughed harder. _“John!”_ Sherlock grabbed his face, trying to calm him down. _“John....”_ He tried to focus on Sherlock's face, but it started going blurry. Sherlock looked up then. He let go of John, and disappeared from John's view. John stared at the grey clouds, trying to will his mind to make sense of what the actual hell had just happened.

“John!” came a woman's voice. He turned his head, watching a blurry female form approach. “John...are you....” The woman dropped to her knees beside him, she was looking at something on the ground. She grabbed John's face. He scrunched up his face. “Sarah? What are you doing here?”  
“I got a note saying to meet you here, Oh God, John are you alright? No, of course not. How many did you take?” She was smoothing his hair down. He wasn't sure if he liked it.  
“All of them” It was getting dark, but it felt good. He was closer now.  
“Oh God, John....” She fumbled in her pocket and he vaguely heard her talking to someone else.  
“I saw him....I saw him....” he whispered, as he slipped into total darkness.


	5. Chapter 5

John became vaguely aware that his head felt like it was being squeezed by a vise. He opened his eyes, and the bright lights instantly made him regret it. He scrunched up his eyes.

“Sherlock” He said. “Sherlock!” he called again, yelling this time.  
He heard footsteps, and let himself relax. Sherlock was here, he was going to be ok.  
“Your heartbeat is a little fast” said a female voice.  
Wait a minute. His eyes flew open. A woman. Checking medical equipment beside his bed. He peered around. A hospital, apparently. He hadn't been in a civilian hospital in God knows when. Suddenly, the scene at the graveyard came back to him. What he'd done.

“Sherlock. …..” He looked around for a moment. “Where's Sherlock?” He said grabbing the nurses's arm.

“Sherlock? Holmes, you mean? Took a fall, didn't he? Such a pity, that” She said and walked from the room.

No....no. That can't be. He had seen him at the graveyard. He was there, John had felt his hand on his face. He had been there.  
He had! “And how are we feeling, then?”

John's head snapped toward the door. Sarah was standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame.

“Sarah, oh I'm so glad to see you. You were there, you must've seen him too.”

“What? Who are you talking about, John?”

“Sherlock, obviously. He must've sent you the note so you could stop me.”

“Mycroft was just here to check on your condition, and he said he sent the note. Said he'd been keeping a keen eye on you since ….well. John, you have to let this go.”

“Mycroft?....No, no...I saw him! I saw him! He was there at the graveyard, he touched my face!” Sarah gave him sympathetic look, and moved touch his arm. “Don't touch me! No, I'm not crazy! I saw him!”

“Of course you're not crazy, John” She flipped open a medical chart. “Results show you'e got Post Concussive Syndrome. Must've been from that nasty bump you took when that cyclist smashed into you. You should've gotten it looked at sooner. But it explains why you're hallucinating.”

“You had to've......No..No....Get out!”John screamed so suddenly, that Sarah jumped.

“Now, now....mind your manners” said a voice from the door.  
“What the...” John turned to look at the doorway, and shook his head at Mycroft standing there, fidgeting with his umbrella.  
“John. You look....”He walked to John's bedside and looked him up and down. “....better than expected.” Mycroft smirked.

“Glad you can have a laugh at my expense. Don't you have some country's election to interfere with?” John sighed, and laid his head back, closing his eyes.  
Mycroft nodded to Sarah, who left. After a few moments of silence, John felt a hand on his arm.  
“Mycroft, you're not really the touchy feely type, so why are you here?”  
Mycroft let out two small coughs. John turned to look at him.

“What the....?”  
“Shh, John. No time to explain.” Sherlock said.  
“It WAS you at the graveyard?”  
“Obviously. But we don't have time for that now. Listen carefully. Someone is after you. They don't know I'm alive, and I'd like to keep it that way. If they find out, I can't ensure your safety.”

“Moriarty?”  
“Dead.”  
“What?...how?” John was dumbfounded.  
“No time, John. Listen....” Sherlock stopped suddenly. He looked at the window. His eyes narrowed. Turning to Mycroft, he nodded, and grabbed john's arm.

“C'mon John, we're going for a little walk” Mycroft half grinned, grabbing his other arm. John swung his legs over the side of the bed.  
“Hurry, hurry...” Sherlock pulled at his arm. John wasn't sure what the bloody hell was going on, but he knew that when Sherlock Holmes told you to hurry up, you did as told.

John limped between the Holmes' brothers. As they approached the door, Mycroft stepped ahead into the hallway. A man with dirty blonde hair was wheeled into the room and laid on the bed.

“Sherlock....?”  
“No time, John” Sherlock helped his friend into the hallway. Seeing his lab coat laying on the nurse's station, he quickly slipped it, and a surgeon's mask on. Nodding to John, they continued their way down the hallway, and out of the hospital. 

Once they reached the street, Sherlock turned to him suddenly.  
“I'm sorry about this, John”  
“About what?”  
“This...” John felt a sudden sting in his neck, and felt himself slide sideways.  
“You'll be alright....I promise” Sherlock's voice said from somewhere above him as a white blankness took him over. He was too far gone to hear the glass shattering behind them.


	6. Chapter 6

John felt a sharp pain on his cheek. His brow furrowed. He squeezed one eye shut, and peeked through the other, just in time to see a pale hand fly towards his left cheek. Without further thought, John's left hand flew out and caught the offender's forearm, his right arm grasping the perpetrator 's bicep. He used his body weight to flip the guy over, and he rolled his own body with him, landing with the transgressor pinned down between his legs. He grabbed both arms, and pinned them down to floor as well, just in case. He sat there, breathing heavily, when suddenly there was a fit of giggles behind him.

“People will talk , John” Sherlock said from beneath him.

“People do little else” John sucked in a heaving breath, and rolled off Sherlock.

“Well done, though. I didn't see that coming.” Sherlock said quietly as possible. He turned to look at his best friend, and was floored by a left hook. “Damn, John, you're getting good at that” He said from the floor. “It's been three days, and I can't deduce your actions anymore...Hmm”

“Damn you and your.....all of you! You bloody git! Three days of actual hell. But you wouldn't know, would you? You machine! I was sick out of my mind! I thought I was crazy, I was seeing things, ....or I thought I was. You selfish, stupid bastard. People care about you, you know. You bastard!” John shouted at him, while shaking a fist.

“”Ah...”Sherlock smiled. “There's my John”. John looked like he was deciding whether to hug Sherlock or slug him again. Finally, he extended a hand to his friend, helping him up, their eyes locked, never parting. They stood there, too close for comfort, too far apart to be natural.

“Right...So, mind filling the rest of us in on what in the actual hell is going on here?” Lestrade sighing heavily, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

Sherlock took in a deep breath, closing his eyes. “It's obvious, isn't it?” He looked around, searching their faces for confirmation, seeing only confusion. He sighed, and dropped his hands to his sides, petulantly. “You're all dead!” Mrs. Hudson and Molly murmured together, in puzzlement.

“Surely not. God's not so cruel as to put me with you, in Heaven” Lestrade scoffed.

“Lestrade, stop thinking. You'll hurt yourself.” Sherlock quipped. “It has been made to seem that you are all dead. Evidence of your deaths has been widely publicized. This has been done for your safety, I assure you.” He spouted off quickly, expecting them all to keep up.

“It was very nice of you to save your brother, Sherlock” Mrs. Hudson said warmly.

“Hardly” Mycroft said under his breath.

“Mycroft....was very....” He looked pained as he spoke. “Kind to help me in this matter”. He turned and gave the most awkward smile to his brother, who returned it. Mrs. Hudson beamed.

“They're working together, God help us all” John mumbled. Molly giggled. Sherlock spun around to look at them.

“Hardly” Sherlock and Mycroft said in unison. Mycroft raised a perfect eyebrow at his little brother.

John shook his head, and grabbed Sherlock's arm. “Look, try pretending the rest of us are not actually inside your mind. Start at the beginning” There were a few giggles around the room. Sherlock smiled wanly.

“Alright. The year is 1971. Mother Watson is heavy with child....Father Watson is away on business....”

“Very funny” John looked exasperated.

“Moriarty planned to kill all my loved ones the day I was on the roof. One of his operatives has carried on his work, and tried to kill you, and I felt the only real way to stop him.....was to kill you off, so to speak.” Sherlock had been talking with his back to them, but he turned to look at the group as he trailed off. He watched their faces as they began to understand what he'd done for them, what it meant, what it would mean for their future. Molly looked in the throes of hero worship. Mrs. Hudson was considering what a future like this would be. Lestrade seemed speechless. John looked....Sherlock had no idea. He narrowed his eyes, trying to read John, any indication of his emotions or thoughts, finding none. He caught John's eye. Usually he could read John like a book, but today.....John turned away.

The others gathered around Sherlock, wondering what the next step was. He had set up places for everyone to stay within his “homeless network”. Invaluable, the homeless network. Mycroft helped to see everyone to the proper places. Finally, it was just Sherlock, John and Mycroft left.

“So, I'll be on my way then. I know how _lovebirds_ like to nest.” Mycroft smirked towards the other two.

“Oh, shut it, Mycroft” Sherlock sneered.

Mycroft whistled the bridal march as he strolled from the room. Sherlock and John both stood looking after him.

“Right....the truth now, Sherlock” John turned to his friend, and tilted his head slightly toward him.

“What? I don't know what you mean.” Sherlock turned away from him.

“Mhmm. Right. Why didn't Moriarty's "operative" kill us all the day you were on the roof?” John demanded. Sherlock fiddled with the cuff of his coat.

“Did you stop them? Did you.....” John thought for a moment. Sherlock retied his scarf.

“That's why you did it, isn't it? That's why you jumped?” John stared at the back of his savior's head, incredulously. “You stupid, ignorant.....wonderful, perfect.....amazing....” He seized Sherlock from behind and crushed him in a grateful hug.

Sherlock patted John's arm, not really knowing what to do, smiling in spite of himself.

“I'm still mad at you” John said, releasing him quickly.

“Right” Sherlock said stiffly, and went off to secure a place for them to stay for the night.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: Mentions/flashback of suicide attemtpt

Sherlock looked to the side. John was sleeping, with his back to him, shivering. Sherlock sighed, and leaned back against the cold side of the building. He took the tattered blanket from his legs, and tossed it over his friend. Satisfied when John stopped shivering, he steepled his hands and brought them to his mouth, deep in thought. 

They had been staying in various places across London, back alleys , and abandoned buildings for several days now. Sherlock removed a small, black mobile phone from his pocket. Fiddling with it, he bit his lip. He had a few trusted individuals in the homeless network keeping a watch for signs of the assassin's next move. But neither they nor he had heard or seen anything to suggest that the person even existed. Sherlock tossed the phone as hard as he could at a nearby bin. The resulting crashed caused a “ - _the hell_ , Sherlock?” from John's direction. 

“I can't concentrate! I need some stimulation!” Sherlock shouted, almost in John's ear, who turned to face the _clearly_ insane man.   
A sharp shrill cut the air behind them. John knitted his brows together. Sherlock turned toward the bin. Raising an eyebrow, he got up slowly and walked to where his discarded phone lay. The screen was brightly lit. He narrowed his eyes. Bending to pick it up, he saw that he had received a text. He smirked. 

“Finally, a challenge” he said, breathily.   
Pressing a button, the text popped up on the screen. Sherlock froze.  
“What is it?” John asked, finally moving about. He looked up from his place on the ground. Seeing the look on Sherlock's face, he hurried over.   
_“How did you like the ending?-JM.”_ John reread the text, this time to himself. He look up at Sherlock for answers.  
“I don't know, John. I....” Sherlock screwed up his face for a moment, then walked a few steps away. Sherlock reviewed his memories of that day on the roof. 

_He took Moriarty's hand – soft grip, comfortable, pulse normal, full eye contact– “Thank you. Bless you.” – avoiding eye contact, reserved, deceitful – “As long as I'm alive, you can save your friends. You've got a way out.” – hesitation, pulse rate increased, resigned? – “Well, good luck with that.” He grips Sherlock's hand tightly, pulling him closer, as he pulls out a handgun. – Beretta 92FS Inox, 9mm – Smiling, then opening his mouth wide, he inserts the gun in his mouth. He pulls the trigger. Sherlock jumps back a fraction of a section before he falls. Sherlock stands, confounded, as blood pours from Moriarty's head. – blood correct color, consistency, and flow rate for the wound – He’d really done it._


	8. Chapter 8

Molly had just bid farewell to Lewis, her assigned contact in the homeless network. She had parted ways with Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and Mycroft in a dark alley. Sherlock had felt they would be safer if they stayed separated. She bit her lip, wondering when she would see her friends again. Lewis had guided Molly to a small, one room shanty on the outskirts of the city. She looked at the place skeptically and turned back to her companion, who had already disappeared. On her own then. Well, it wasn't the first time. 

She gingerly opened the door, and stepped inside, peering around. It was bare, save for a chair by the solitary window, and a stained mattress laying on the floor against the back wall. She made a face at the mattress, and then went for the chair. Sighing, she curled one leg under her as she sat. 

“Well, this is not what I had in mind when Sherlock said he needed me.” She said aloud, then grimaced. Her voice sounded strange here. With no one to talk to. Usually she had cadavers as an audience. 

She spent the next few days in near total silence. Only Lewis' visits broke the quiet. He brought food as best he could, but it wasn't much. Molly felt awkward eating in front of him, and offered him a portion a few times, but he always refused. Sometimes, she tried to goad him into a conversation, more for her own sake than anything else. But he would usually just nod along to whatever she said. After she finished eating, he'd grin at her, tip his battered hat, and leave.   
That day, some time after Lewis had left, she was sitting in the chair. She was staring out the window, but her eyes were glazed and she wasn't really seeing. Her mind was blank for such a strangely long time, yet it seemed no time had passed at all. Oh, right. She sat up, and took her thumbnail, and began scratching a notch into the wall to mark the day. This would make four marks. Four days. Only four days? She was so desperately bored. Maybe this was how Sherlock felt. Constantly. 

There was a chirp behind her. She didn't respond at all, at first. The sound was so sharp, and strange, and foreign to her ears now. Her brain took a moment to process what what it might be. Slowly, she got up from the chair, and searched in the direction of the sound. Approaching the mattress, the chirp sounded again, from her coat.   
Leaning over her coat, she hesitated and held her breath. Reaching in to the coat pocket, she pulled out a unfamiliar, black mobile. The screen was aglow. 

The first text was a phone number. She exhaled loudly, relieved. Oh you, Sherlock, she grinned, blushing a bit.   
“I thought you might call” read the second text. Molly tapped her thumb on the phone lightly, debating.   
Mustering courage, she dialed the number. After ringing a few times, the line came open.   
“Hello....Sherlock?”   
_“Meet you at The Fox.”_


	9. Chapter 9

Lestrade sat in the back of a sleek, black taxi. Sighing lightly to himself, he stared blankly out the window. Mycroft had ushered him away from the group, into a taxi straight away.

"Everything will be taken care of, Gregory. Don't worry" Mycroft had said, and given him the classic Holmes' smile. 

But now that he was sitting in the taxi, and had a long while to think, he felt uncomfortable. Geez, his family must be out of their minds with grief. They thought he was dead, after all. If roles were reversed....He didn't want to think about that. Oh...his daughter, Janie must be destroyed. How long was he going to have to be in hiding? Long enough that his family would move on after his “death”? What might happen when he reappeared one day? Gah, had Sherlock even thought this through? Ppfft. The guy probably enjoyed having such control over all their lives. 

He knew he should be grateful to Sherlock. Mycroft too. They were saving his life. Maybe even at this moment, they were working to keep him safe. Still. Didn't have to be such mysterious pricks about it. He closed his eyes, and leaned on the cool window. 

“.....Hey! Hey!”   
“Hmm?” Lestrade's eyes shot open. He must've drifted off. How long had been out? He looked around, the taxi had come to a stop on an unfamiliar street, lined with dilapidated buildings, victims of the recession. 

“How much?” Lestrade said, reaching for his wallet.   
“No charge. Your chum....with the umbrella? He took care of everything.”

Lestrade had fished into his pocket, and had been greeted with a handful of air. What the -! …..Sherlock! Reaching into his coat pocket, already knowing his phone would not be there. He sighed heavily. Annoyed, he stepped out of the cab. 

Lestrade stuffed his hands into his coat pockets, pulling his aviators from the left one and slipping them on. He had no idea where he was supposed to go. Looking both ways down the street, and finally began walking north. He had been walking for a minute or two when he heard his name called. 

“You Greg then?”  
Lestrade looked up, but didn't answer. There was a young man leaning against one of the buildings. He had dark hair tucked under a knit hat, a plain tee shirt, and jeans worn in several places. He hesitated. 

“It's ok. You don't have to answer. I can see you are. Sherlock said you were a Copper. It's plain as the nose on your face. Which is saying something, I think” he laughed at his own joke, and motioned for Lestrade to come closer. 

“How did -” Lestrade started to ask.   
“Knew you were coming for days. He's brilliant, that one.” the young man said. He nodded to an alleyway, and started towards. Lestrade stood there for a moment, dumbfounded. Sherlock is going to be the death of me. 

“I'm Toby, by the way.” he turned to make sure Lestrade was behind. He began to follow at short distance. Toby gave a small grin and continued. 

“Not much of a talker, eh? That's ok. I can talk for the both of us. Can't stand the quiet. You must be pretty good friends with Sherlock, hmm? For him to go to all this trouble? For a Copper at that. Ha. How long you been on the force? Grey hair like that? But so young looking? Must've been mighty stressful....”

Lestrade tuned Toby out as they walked on. He kept his hands in his pockets, fidgeting with bits of lints as he laid out his plan in his mind. He knew it wasn't a good idea, but the pit of his stomach felt that it might pull up out of his throat when he thought of his daughter grieving over him. The image of her heartbroken, tear stained face appeared in his mind, causing him to break stride. He pressed both palms to the sides of his head. He couldn't do this. He couldn't go on pretending he was dead, while his little girl was just on the other side of London, having her beautiful heart torn for the first time in her life. 

He looked up, Toby hadn't paused his monologue, and hadn't seem to notice that Lestrade had stopped walking, the distance between them growing still. He looked around quickly, he might only have seconds before Toby realized. Seeing a open doorway on the fringe of his vision, he knew this was his only chance. One last look at Toby's back, and he side-stepped as quietly as his leather shoes would carry him. 

Lestrade stood breathing as softly as possible, straining to hear Toby's voice growing more distant. Finally, Toby grew quiet, and footsteps echoed on the cobblestone. Then the footsteps grew louder, and Lestrade put a hand over his mouth, to completely muffle his breath. His pulse raced, though at this point there was nothing he could do. He waited for Toby's face to peer around the doorframe. But it didn't. Finally, the footsteps retreated, as Toby's voice rang out again. 

“Hey. Yeah, he got away. No sign of him. Mhmm. Right.” Then the voice and footsteps were too far away to make out. 

Lestrade huffed out a breath. He cautiously peered 'round the door frame, and finding the alley empty, he started off toward the main road. He felt immensely relieved. Sherlock had done a good thing, a fine thing even. But the man didn't take in all the factors. He hadn't consider what this might do to our families. Selfish git. Lestrade understood the plan, and approved. He'd do it. Just...his own way.


	10. Chapter 10

Lestrade slid out of the back of the taxi, which he'd asked the driver to drop him two streets away from his house. Sherlock had left his badge in one of his coat pockets, and it'd come in handy when payment was expected for the ride. “Official Police Business” He'd said and jumped out before the cabbie could protest. “Be sure to send your complaints to Sergeant Donovan” He said on a lark, glad for the darkness concealing his face. 

He used the time it took to walk to his street to clear his head. He just wanted to see his baby girl, his wife. Make sure they were ok. He'd keep his distance. He'd done this on cases several dozen times. He knew the drill. Still, a shaky breath ripped through him. 

Turning the corner up his street, and seeing his familiar blue house coming into view, he was unprepared for the pangs in his chest. The lights were on in Janie's room. He stood, partially behind a tree diagonal from his house. He stared at the curtains at Janie's window, willing her small face to appear at the parting, so he could catch just a glimpse. That he might be reassured. He knew her world would be falling apart right now, but if he could just see her face, maybe he could see that maybe one day she would be alright again. 

His thoughts were interrupted by headlights slicing through the darkness in front of him. Instinctively, he ducked back further behind the tree. After the headlights turned away from him, he could see that it was a blue car, and it was pulling up in front of his house. His wife climbed out of the left side of car, laughing breathlessly. A bloke stepped from the driver's seat. He was a decent looking fellow, if Lestrade had to be put to it. He watched the two of them kiss softly, intimately, obviously not for the first time, before unlocking the door and disappearing inside. 

He stared after them for a long moment. _“No, she's sleeping with the PE teacher”_ Sherlock had said at the Christmas party. _“No, She's sleeping with the PE teacher”._ Lestrade had said he's sorted things out with his wife. _“No, She's sleeping with the PE teacher!”._ He'd known. At the time, Lestrade had thought Sherlock was just being a dick. But now?

He looked up and down the street and finding it quite empty, he crossed over. Walking around the left side of the house, to the back corner of the house, where he knew his wife always left their bedroom window open just a crack, no matter how many times he had warned her. He half grinned at irony now, welcoming the distraction. He ducked to one side of the window, hearing shuffling noises coming from inside. 

He let his eyes slide to the tiny opening in the curtains. A flash of bare skin, then muffled whispers. Then..she was moaning. _His_ name. _His_ love. _His_....ugh. Lestrade felt sick, and turned to look at something else, anything else. Suddenly, he heard a sharp click behind him. 

He started at the sight of his little girl, pointing his handgun at him. 

“Daddy....?” She said quietly, not quite believing her eyes. 

Lestrade took a steadying breath, and reached toward the gun. Janie jerked back her hand, her aim unwavering. She grasped the gun with both hands, finger caressing the trigger. 

“Buttons” 

Janie dropped the gun, as several tears ran down her face. Lestrade started towards her, but she dove into him, her arms encircling his middle. He patted her hair softly. 

“Daddy...daddy...” She had her face pressed firmly into his middle, muffling her cries. 

“I'm proud of you, Janie, I am. Holding that gun, ready to defend your mom, and yourself. Just like I taught you. Very good.” He was trying to distract her, quiet her cries, but he found that he meant it.

“Not good enough, or you'd've been dead.” She laughed through her sniffles, looking up at him with reverence. 

“Good thing you remembered the safe word.” He cupped her cheek, smiling at her. 

 

Lestrade tried his best to explain the situation to Janie, leaving out some of the more sensitive, or gory bits. He impressed upon her the importance that no one know he was alive, but that he would be back, and everything would be back to normal one day. It was a partial lie, he knew. But sometimes we do things to make it easier for the other people in our lives. After being reassured by Janie that she would keep his secret, he hugged her tightly, and sent her inside. She'd make a great officer someday, he grinned to himself. 

He waited until she was completely out of sight. Thinking it might come in handy, he bent to retrieve the gun, and pocketed it.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shlub: A jerk; a foolish, stupid or unknowing person, second rate, inferior. (Yiddish)

Lestrade had been keeping a low profile for the past two days, sleeping in abandoned buildings he knew the Yard didn't care to keep tabs on. Now, he sat on a stool, at the bar, in some tiny, grungy pub, where he was not likely to be recognized. He was already rat-arsed, but he kept drinking. Staring at his glass, Sherlock's voice rang in head: _“No, She's sleeping with the PE teacher”._ He sighed and gulped down the entire glass. He tipped his head toward the barman, banging his glass down a little too hard. 

“Hey....no more drinks, eh? You got someone you can call?” The barman said, tapping the bar in front of Lestrade with two fingers. 

“I'd rather have another drink” he pushed the glass toward the man roughly, causing it to tip over the ledge of the bar and glass glittered around the barman's feet. 

“Look fella, you've had enough. Time to go.” He tilted his head toward the door. 

Lestrade felt rage surge up inside. _“No, she's sleeping with the PE teacher”._ His wife moaning another man's name as he stood outside the window. His daughter having to hold a gun. Sod this. He stood up quickly, toppling his stool. Feeling stupid, and frustrated, he kicked the stool with all his strength, sending it flying in a nearby table. A few patrons let out yelps. 

“I'm having a very bad day! And, I just! Want! Another bloody pint!” He yelled at no one in particular. He backed up to sit on his stool, which he had forgotten had been moved, and fell over backward.

 

When he came to, he was sitting in the back of a police vehicle. He sighed and went to scrub a hand over his face, when he realized he was handcuffed. Of course. He was in the middle of a very severe tirade to himself on why he was a Class A _Shlub,_ when the door of the car opened without warning. An officer leaned in and grabbed his arm, helping him from the car. Lestrade looked at the man, questioningly. 

“You're needed elsewhere, Sir” The officer said, refusing to looking anywhere but straight ahead. He escorted Lestrade by the arm a dozen meters, perhaps, before stopping in front of a nondescript black car. The officer opened the back door, and gestured that Lestrade should get in. Raising an eyebrow, he did. 

_“Hands”_ demanded a voice that startled him. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he saw that another officer was sitting next to him, holding boltcutters, and gesturing to Lestrade's handcuffed hands in front of him. He held his hands out and the officer snipped the chain between the cuffs, severing the link. 

“So I'm guessing it would be pointless to ask what all this is about, yeah?”

The officer gave a small grin, holding a small, black mobile out to Lestrade. As his fingers closed around it, it trilled.


End file.
